Super
by wirewrappedlily
Summary: Tony Stark and Sherlock Holmes are both brilliant, cocky, sometimes-selfish bastards. But what happens when Tony finds himself thrown through time and space into Victorian London, with his counterpart thrown forwards into 2012? Tony/Steve Sherlock/Watson
1. Chapter 1

Tony Stark had about a three-second glimpse of a man that looked almost exactly like him before the reflection was gone and he wasn't standing in his lab in Stark Tower anymore.

Something that had been in the room he was now standing in had projectile-vomited red string, and there was a decidedly Victorian feel to the room. "Toto, I don't think I'm in Kansas anymore…" Tony sing-songed, turning slowly around the room to face a blond, blue-eyed doctor gaping at him.

Doctor Watson stared unabashedly at the thing glowing out of Sherlock's look-alike's chest. Tony glanced down at his implant, surprisingly pleased that it was still working. Watson made a high-pitched whine, wobbling on his own legs, his eyes rolling up as he fell, completely boneless, to the floor.

Tony winced at the impact, hissing slightly, "That had to've hurt."

* * *

Sherlock Holmes nearly took out three robots just trying to get his bearings and balance in all the bright, shiny...shininess.

Steve Rogers tilted his head slightly, half-catching Sherlock's arms and steadying him, "Tony, you…" Steve's sentence cut off as he looked into near-black eyes, "You're not Tony."

Sherlock shook his head, more jittery than he'd ever been, "N-No. My name is Sherlock Holmes, consultant detective of 221B Baker St., London."

A loud, shrieking alarm went off, and Sherlock felt like his knees were about to give out, "Damn." Steve hissed, lifting Sherlock off his feet and dumping him in Tony's swivel chair, "Stay here," Steve ordered as Natasha Romanoff came bursting in behind him.

"We need Iron Man."

"Not while he's half-dead, we don't. Agent Romanoff, you're taking Thor and Hulk into this one. Hawkeye back-up. Tony's...out of commission." Steve was horrible at lying. He couldn't even bluff in poker. How he'd falsified those enlistment forms for so long astonished him to this day. But a little bit of that luck seemed to infect him as Natasha took the orders, throwing an almost-concerned look at "Tony" before she nodded once and walked right back out of the lab.

Sherlock looked up at Steve-had been since Steve lifted him off the ground-using all of his considerable mental acuity to try to figure out what kind of demi-god Steve was.

Cap almost smirked to himself as he thought of what his reaction would be to Thor. "Alright...Sherlock...I know you're not Tony, but sprouting a British accent and pretending to have forgotten everything he knew would be something Tony might actually do, so the others may not be so convinced."

Sherlock shot a look at Steve like the supersoldier had gone completely batshit insane, but Steve put that down to the fact that he was convinced.

Really, the more Steve thought about it, the more unconvincing it seemed. But he couldn't question it. When he looked at Tony Stark (more importantly, when Tony Stark looked at ihim/i), there was a taunt in those near-black eyes, and Tony never quite lost the hint of it, no matter how much Tony outright taunted him. Sherlock's eyes were nothing more than fucking scared.

Bruce walked in quickly, looking from Cap to Sherlock and realization bloomed in his eyes, "Tony okay?"

"If he's in London, probably." Cap answered unsteadily, and Bruce nodded once as if he'd just confirmed a theory. "I don't know what happened-"

"I do. Cap, meet Dr. Strange."

Cap's demeanor tensed as the tall, older man swept in, his robes swishing with importance, "Captain Rogers, it is a pleasure to meet you."

"Dr. Strange, it's a pleasure to meet you, as well…"

"I come bearing grievous news, I'm afraid. Your Tony has been taken by the machinations of Viktor Von Doom."

"He's created a machine that's split into time and space. Dr. Strange-as far from science as he is-is the only person on SHIELD's radar that's really done anything like this."

Cap nodded, and Bruce looked back between them, shifting anxiously, "Tasha needs you, Bruce, we'll get started here."

Bruce nodded, almost relieved, and left them quickly, "Magic…" Sherlock ruminated quietly, his eyes narrowing.

Strange looked at him with steady eyes, snapping his fingers and conjuring a phoenix-like bird into his waiting palm. Sherlock looked like he was about to have a coronary.

"Doc, would you mind helping me to keep Mr. Holmes from dying?" Cap asked, worried about the look in Sherlock's eyes, "If Tony dies, Sherlock dies, or vice versa, am I right?"

Dr. Strange looked completely shocked that Steve had made that connection, and Steve tried not to let himself feel any resentment towards the fact that everyone thought he was the muscle and nothing more. "I would think the transference would be life-force for life-force, so my death would mean that someone else would have to go back in my stead in order for Tony to be brought back here, where he belongs." Sherlock announced almost grandly, shooting an appreciative look at Steve.

"Sherlock, you need food, and I'm always hungry. Come on," Steve ordered, and Sherlock flinched, looking wide-eyed at the fact that he was going to actually obey. "Doctor-"

"I will begin gathering information and try to find a way to return Sherlock to his rightful time and place. Tony having switched places with him has slowed the process of this world decaying, but with them in the wrong times and places, the decay will eventually collapse this world."

"What would be the reasoning for this?" Sherlock murmured to himself, turning Steve's attention to him.

"I don't know. We'll think about that while we eat. C'mon." Cap hauled Sherlock to his feet, raising a threatening eyebrow when Sherlock didn't start moving of his own volition after that. Sherlock looked shakily away from Cap, carefully picking his steps and tremouring with every step.

Sitting Sherlock in the cavernous kitchen of the Avenger's levels of Stark tower, Cap moved around the gleaming room with more confidence than he felt. "You and Tony live together?"

Steve's head shot up, his mind blurbing with the implications that Sherlock surely didn't mean, "Um...Tony offered the Avengers two levels of rooms here. We all, eventually, took him up on that."

"The Avengers?"

"Well, the original team of us: The Fantastic Four are in the Baxter building, the others...Um, the Avengers are...a group of people that are charged with protecting the world…" Steve explained in halting, broken words, feeling like they were inadequate, and Tony would've been able to explain it so much better.

"So, you and Tony are a part of them?"

"Yeah. Tony created a suit, powered by a...I guess, like a battery that's implanted in his chest. He's a genius, and he's saved us all...quite a bit…" Steve looked down at his hands, thinking of the nuke Tony had died to save them from: the machine gun that Tony had shot into so Steve himself wouldn't be shot...Steve made a mental note to find some way to tell Tony how much he'd appreciated it when Tony had gotten them to carry on, even when everyone wanted to give up.

"A battery in his chest?"

"He...he was in an explosion. It left shrapnel in his chest, and in order to keep it from reaching his heart, he needed a magnet, of sorts. The implant provides electricity," Steve gestured to the lights, "that keeps the shrapnel in place."

"What a marvelous conception…" Sherlock muttered.

Steve silently agreed with him, not that he'd ever tell Tony. "I don't know-" Steve's breath even cut off, his eyes widening at the thought that Tony's technology wouldn't work in Sherlock's time. Steve felt his chest growing tight, almost cutting off all of his breathing entirely.

"Captain?" Sherlock questioned before looking up at him sharply. Realization flooded, and Sherlock was on his feet, one hand on the back of Steve's neck and the other tugging him around, "Breathe, Captain, just focus on breathing."

It felt like an asthma attack, but Captain hadn't had one for a very long time.

"You, my good sir, are having a case of hysteria." Sherlock told him calmly, and Steve's eyes flashed, his heart rate slowing by increments.

"Panic attack." Steve managed, his knuckles white, clenched around the counter without putting so much pressure on it that the marble would break, "I-It's called a panic attack now…" Steve lurched over to the glasses, sloshing cool water into the cup and downing it until he felt calmed. "Forgive me-"

"You are concerned that Tony won't have his...battery...in my day and age! I am concerned that Watson won't be able to evade Moriarty without me there, either. We both have concerns about the people for whom we care. Now, tell me more about this...technology. I need to know everything I can if I'm to play the part of Tony Stark."

* * *

"What I don't understand is how you could have implanted something that mechanical into your chest!" Watson argued, looking more incensed than he really had any right to be.

"It was that or let shrapnel stop my heart!" Tony shrugged, buttoning one of Sherlock's shirts over the arc reactor. "So, Sherlock Holmes is my spirit animal. I don't know whether to be concerned or proud."

"What?"

Tony frowned, "This is going to be worse than playing Scene It with Steve, I can already tell."

"Seen what?" Watson demanded, insult winning over confusion.

Groaning, Tony walked to the brandy, "I'm far too sober for this."

"No! No, you will sit down and tell me where Sherlock is!" The outright fear in Watson's eyes had Tony obeying, a little stupefied that someone would care that much for a man like Sherlock Holmes; it'd never been that way in the books, to his mind.

"Sherlock, as far as I can tell, is where I come from. The year 2012."

Watson's entire demeanor shut down, his eyes closing and his lips tightening as he shook himself into place, sighing as he opened them again, "You don't know how to get home, do you?" Watson's voice was smooth and quiet, and Sherlock should feel humbled by how much he's cared for, where ever he is.

"No." Tony's voice was rough, thinking of all he'd left behind. For some reason, Steve came to mind first. Another person he never got a chance to prove himself to, gone forever from his life. He would've killed to see the look on Steve's face when he threw it back at him that really he was worthy to be on this team. It would have been like proving to his father that he became a better man than even the illustrious Howard Stark...

Watson sat heavily in the armchair across from Tony's, and Tony got a sense that that chair had been created for the sole purpose of being used by Dr. Watson. "If it weren't for that ruddy flashlight in your chest, I'd think Sherlock had finally lost the last of the little reason left him. It's almost too convenient that Sherlock would disappear like this the day before my wedding!" Watson had that enraged, frustrated, and put-upon tone of someone who loved another that continually let them down. Tony had heard it enough; he knew.

"I'm sorry for what's happened, but I don't want to be here just as much as you don't want me here, so if there's any way you could possibly think of to start us figuring out how to _undo_ it, I'd be very appreciative." Watson shot him an almost sullen look, and Tony sighed. This was going to be a long day...


	2. Chapter 2

Tony shrugged into the thick woolen coat, keeping the collar popped against the back of his neck and tying a proper carvat over top of it all. Watson was waiting for him in the drawing room, and Tony kind of marvelled at how the silk of his attire managed to cover the glow of the reactor entirely.

"And what do you propose to do with me today, dear doctor?" The easy glide of the accent, the lilting dipthongs of words in their proper English, came to Tony's tongue with surprising ease now that he'd heard Watson talk for almost twelve hours straight.

Watson jerked in his seat, waking himself up, and looked at Tony with bloodshot eyes, recognition but unfamiliarity sparking in the cloudy-sky blues. "Your hair needs to be messier, and your goatee shaven, but you could pass for him even if it were Mycroft looking, I'd wager." Watson's voice was a little smooth with pride, and Tony couldn't help the smile pulling at his cheeks, "I've no idea what Sherlock was working on, so I cannot tell you what his movements would be-"

"Allow me," Tony rumbled in his assumed accent and cadence, shifting his shoulders to get used to the weight of the encumbering material, "Sherlock was working on a spider's web of crime, the connections of which lead back to one man: Professor James Moriarty. From this, I would...deduce," the word fell from Tony's tongue with some distaste, "that Moriarty is in the business of starting a war."

Watson looked at him askance, "You...deduced all this?"

"It was...elementary," now he was just having fun, but, honestly, what else could he do? "Now, Doctor Watson, we need a celebration of your coming nuptials-"

"I'm not getting married. Not without Sherlock at my side. Mary will understand if I tell her we are in danger."

"Which, I am to assume you are. I doubt a man like Moriarty is easily taking to the thought of you and Holmes on his scent."

"No...no, he wouldn't be." Tony straightened once more, looking back through into the spider's web. "Do you still need that drink?"

Tony flinched, called back, and looked round at the doctor, smiling, "I would kill for something." Tony sat down as Watson stood, and he hung his head, elbows on his thighs as he considered the doctor. Watson needed a drink; Tony didn't down a single drop.

His mind wasn't trained to work this way, but his synapses were beginning to get used to the change. It was almost familiar, the roar and whirr of his mind in overdrive, snatching at wisps of data and following the trail to the end. It almost felt good to be able to think in something other than code. Getting into Sherlock's mind wasn't nearly as difficult as Tony had first thought it would be. Especially with what Tony could tell from Watson and Sherlock's relationship. He'd cultivated a knack for spotting marrieds in a room, and Watson was throwing that vibe like there was no tomorrow. But it wasn't down to poor Mary: every time Tony did the wrong thing-right thing, really, but Tony felt almost guilty for looking and acting the part of Dr. Watson's soulmate without really being him.

"Your..._Steve_...wha's he like?" Watson was dropping his consonants, already beginning to seem a little worse for wear.

"Straight-laced, blond-haired, blue-eyed military man with no patience for me and even less regard."

Watson was sunken into the chair, owlish blue-grey eyes staring out from the burgundy paisley, "I don' believe that. You're li' Sh-Sherlock." The last syllable was more of a hiccough than a part of a word, but Tony was fluent in Drunk. "Bloody brill'ant 'n' a right bastard."

Tony's eyebrows raised, "Steve hates me. It's alright, though: the feeling is quickly becoming mutual."

"I doubt he hates you." Watson slurred, the brandy sloshing about in the snifter as he shakily poured himself another draught. "I can't hate Sherlock, and you're more tol-to-"

"Tolerable?"

"_That!_ -than he'll ever be." Watson shook his head at his drink, taking a long swill. "He's a bastard, but he's my best friend. -Tell him I said that and I'll kill you."

Tony snorted, thoroughly amused, "Your secret's safe with me…"

"Mmm...tha's not my secret." Watson whispered conspiratorially, looking like a naughty six-year-old, half-eaten by his armchair, "My secret is...my secret i-is…" Tony looked at the demolished snifter of brandy, smiling to himself as Watson's eyes drifted closed and a soft snore rumbled out from under his moustache.

"I can see why you like him, old man," Tony whispered, "Though why he likes us, I'll never know."

Sighing, Tony retrieved his coat, confident in his long-honed ability to slip through the clutches of "watchers" unnoticed. He knew that there was a pub that he needed to head to; a gypsy woman that was somehow, inexplicably connected in all this.

Tony pocketed Sherlock's pistol, grabbing his hat and turning his collar up, scrunching himself down and adding a limp for good measure.

Tony walked for three blocks with his observers on his tail before he shook them, doubling back to Baker St. and commandeering the early attempt at a car he found there. Tony grinned to himself, remembering the tour of historical mechanics he'd been treated to once, and trying out all the old technology for himself.

If the machine didn't realize he was Tony Stark, this might just work.

Snickering to himself as he secured the goggles over his eyes, Tony pulled out onto the street, smiling with a "come at me, fucker" attitude as his watchers glanced up and took him to be someone else, still trying to pick up the trail of his earlier rouse.

Tony had been to London many times before. Actually, three of his favourite affairs had been here.

Tony ignored the voice of Steve Rogers in his head telling him that he wasn't worth anything, especially in the context of the number of people he'd charmed his way into the pants of. Tony really ignored how much he kinda wished Steve was on that list.

The night after everything had settled and cooled, Tony had gotten spectacularly drunk and had burned every file, story, letter, and everything else he could think of that had to do with Steve Rogers. He was weeping and angry and hurt, but when it came to the picture of a near-anorexic Steve Rogers, standing there with Dr. Erskine in a handshake, Tony had stopped himself, his heart ripping to shreds in his chest until he was only running off of the arc reactor anymore. Steve had been a good man. A great man. And he'd been friends with Howard...good enough friends that Howard had funded an on-going search for Steve even past his death. Steve's words-so much like Howard's silence-had rung through his head. He wasn't a hero. He never would be.

If JARVIS hadn't sent the suit after him, Tony would have ended up nothing more than a smudge on the sidewalk and a few headlines. Tony almost regretted making his artificial intelligence so damn intelligent.

The photo was in his pocket even now; would always be in his pocket, a constant reminder of his real worth. Tony would never think himself as more than a meaningless waste of space again, and it gave him the strength to completely throw himself into saving people; helping people, with no regard for whether or not he lived through it. That was, after all, what Steve wanted from him.

Twitching his shirtsleeves and looping the goggles over one of the hand brake, Tony dismounted the car-

"You are not my brother!" Mycroft Holmes, portly and the kind of merry that came with too much brain to really be bothered by anything, emerged from the shadows. "But you look like such a twin of him I'm beginning to wonder if I don't have a second."

"My name is Tony Stark, I-"

"I don't need to know where you're from or why, just where my brother is." Mycroft must have been spectacular at reading his brother, because he nodded thoughtfully, "I see. This will be one of _those_ situations, then. No matter! I shall turn you more into my brother than my brother's...assistant ever could bear."

Tony looked up at Mycroft sharply, "You know…"

"I make it a point of my life, Mister Stark, to keep track of everyone my brother falls in love with. Which is how I know that his...paramour, one Miss Irene Adler, is lately dead."

Tony felt it like a kick to the chest. Sherlock's lover had been killed, and Sherlock hadn't known when he left. Wouldn't've known for a while, if Tony translated Mycroft's intentions correctly. Tony hated all of this. Sherlock may have been as dislikable a man as he was, but no one deserved this...monstrosity of a world on their shoulders with treatment like this. "Do what you will, but for now, I have a gypsy to save and a criminal mastermind to bring down."

Tony swept away from Mycroft, easing into disappearing into the crowd with long legs eating the path from under him and his mannerisms fluidly changing from Tony Stark to someone he didn't even recognize. Sweeping up the stairs and into the fortune-teller's alcove, an umbrella fell into his hand as though called, and Tony stepped into place even as the gypsy and her client began protesting.

Tony struck upwards with the umbrella, taking the assassin hiding on the ceiling out of his perch. Tony took two strides forward and turned, whipping the umbrella, flat against his forearm, across the assassin's face, stepping into it and flipping him headlong over Tony's body, leaving him winded on the ground.

Tony quickly incapacitated the assassin, sending a token of thanks to Natasha for being scary but fun to watch.

Grabbing the gypsy's wrist as she tried to beat a retreat, Tony brought them both down to the floor, drawn close and tucked in the shadows, out of sight, as her client's screaming brought the club's rougher patrons coming. "You are in danger, and if you don't help me, both of us may end up dead. I will let you go now, but you have to tell me where to find you again."

The woman looked him over quickly but carefully, making up her mind. Tony could see the choice for truth in her eyes, "Paris. Outside the city of Montroxis, there's a gypsy camp. I will be there…"

Tony nodded, watching the men blundering up the stairs, "I will find you. Be wary of others like that one." Tony nodded to the unconscious assassin, "Smell alone could kill you." Tony groaned as he launched them both to their feet, running from the scene as blame was slung to them. The girl was gone, Tony on her tail, but he turned, grabbing her bag from its resting place, and, by the time he'd turned back, she was gone.

Out the window, onto a cart of hay, over the side, and onto the street found Tony being hauled up by Mycroft's man, lifted painfully until he was looking Mycroft in the eye with his hair in an iron grip. "You will not disobey me, Mr. Stark. My brother, fool that he is, made the mistake of working against me for ten years. It ended up with my hand being forced and Dr. Watson's life in jeopardy. Do not mistake me for a fool-"

Tony burst out a short laugh, "You shouldn't mistake me for an idiot, Mycroft...but then, being underestimated has its advantages."

"You are not my brother!"

"No, but I am still a genius." Tony quipped, lashing out with every bit of training he'd ever had.

Mycroft regained his footing as Tony drove off into the night eagerly, "Caruthers, put out an arrest warrant for Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

Tony was half-way up the stairs when Watson careened into him, more pissed off than a hive of bees after being used for football.

Tony slammed back against the wall, Watson's forearm against his collarbone, and Watson's enraged yell tearing into the early-morning silence.

Tony clapped his hand over Watson's mouth, silencing him mid-yell, his ankle flashing out to take out Watson's even as he curved his body around Watson's to both block the bullets and take the brunt of the fall down the stairs as the lower level was suddenly overpopulated with armed thugs.

"You cannot be allowed to continue!" One of them yelled, his accent heavy Cockney, and Tony flipped them so that his body was between Watson and the bullets, hauling them both bodily upward, towards the window on the landing, then throwing himself through it, Watson not far behind.

Tony landed on his back on the small shed, air woofing out of his lungs and side burning from a brush with a bullet. Watson stared down at him for a moment before jerking him upwards and taking Tony's weight along with his own while leaping off that shed down to the street. Watson groaned with the shooting pain in his legs, but they kept going, a cabby hailing them down.

"Mister 'olmes-"

"We're in a chase!" Tony impressed, his voice in the accent despite the hastiness.

"Aye, sir." Giving something of a salute, the cabbie craftily got them promptly lost in the darkened, deadened streets.

Watson noticed Tony holding pressure to the wound in his side, taking over with his own hand and looking like he was about to start tearing Tony a new one for disappearing on him, "Look, John, if you expect me to allow the Napoleon of crime to reap his evil the world over, you can stuff it! I will not be cast aside, my mind is my greatest weapon yet, and no one may take that truth!" Tony growled, with more venom than necessary towards Watson. It wasn't Watson he was really speaking to, anyway: it was Steve. Steve and his perfect body and tactical brilliance. The kid that wouldn't run away from a fight, and he was one of the greatest tacticians the world had ever seen. His perfection made Tony seethe, because he had the mind and the strength; all Tony would ever have was his mind.

Damn pretty boy soldier with his damn tooth-paste commercial of a smile.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you guys so much for your feedback and support. This story, I will admit, is kind of kicking my ass. It's an uphill battle, but I promise, I'll get through it, just bear with me.  
**

**Anywho, I hope you all enjoy!  
**


	3. Chapter 3

"You are almost as infuriating as that damnable traitor Watson, my good sir, and your distinct lack of leadership skills suggests that command is a poor position for you to be maintaining!" Sherlock snapped, looking up waspishly from Tony's computerized journals. JARVIS hadn't liked it, but Steve had convinced the disembodied voice to help them once he mentioned Tony's endangered life.

Steve flinched, the words, even stilted and Victorian, landing like a bloody slap. "What?" Steve asked quietly, turning to Sherlock. Sherlock wasn't like Tony when he was enraged: Where a truly pissed off Tony got snarky and monosyllabic, Sherlock was seething but in control that was bordering on psychotic. Steve's heart twisted; could he really pass Sherlock off as Tony to the world, or would he fail his...his friend. Again. Okay, Steve was not deluded: he knew that he'd hurt Tony pretty badly with what he'd said. Probably, he'd messed it up badly enough to warrant Tony never speaking to him again, but Steve got the sense that he'd be in-your-face with anger, not avoiding it. Still, Steve wanted to think of Tony as a friend.

"Your diatribe on the worth of your colleague is disgusting and offensive!" Sherlock started, standing violently and staring at Steve, "Do you understand nothing of what it is to be a soldier and a gentleman: a leader of men? The kindness you show all...why not to Anthony Stark? Is he truly worth so little in your estimation that you would stoop to _words_?"

"Tony is no picnic to deal with! He's abrasive and too damn smart and so snarky that I wanted to sock him in the mouth!" Steve took a step forward, and Sherlock just got into his face.

"I have loved the one person most infuriated and perplexed by me for _years_! I am expected to be his best man in my own time, his wedding is nigh, and I am forced to the painful hope that he will not go through with it. _You_ do not know the extent to which a colleague can hurt you." Sherlock looked up into Steve's eyes more steadily than he'd ever looked into Watson's, and he could feel with the admittance that he was about to shake apart. "I infuriate him to hear him speak, and I perplex him because I know he is the only one that could understand me if I didn't. It is a...hazard...of carrying a...blasted bloody emotion in your heart!" Steve's lips parted, shock written clear on his features. "You have more need of this reading than I do, Captain Rogers."

Sherlock stormed out of the room, headed for the bathroom, which was the only other room that had been deemed safe for him to inhabit without risk of being seen. Sherlock felt sick to his stomach in any case, the memory of plastering on his charade for Watson's benefit still making him sick at himself. Gritting his teeth, Sherlock Holmes squared himself, factoid after factoid running through his head on the life and times of Anthony Stark. He knew how much it hurt not to be good enough for your family; he'd be damned if the Watson clad in red white and blue from this day and age deemed the other him insufficient on top of _that_. Breathing in the pristine, cool, white room, Sherlock looked at himself, knowing what Watson could see, what the world could see. A joke of a man, but with a mind that couldn't be paralleled. How he hated it. With such a sickening passion.

He was trying to kill himself, could either Watson or Rogers not see this? In this world, and in his own, their lives were forfeit for their usefulness. Taken from them both and crushed beneath the words and actions of men with lesser minds but better hearts.

Sherlock's mouth twisted down, and he looked down at the marble of the sink, seeing the silver and slight peach flecked within the creamy hues of the stone. He would not die in this world. It wasn't his to die in: Tony Stark was the one with the right to that. He was the one that had a right to let Steven finally be brought to acknowledgement of his pain, not Sherlock.

"Do what you will: I will not rest until Watson is safe in the arms of his Mary, all threat gone." Sherlock breathed, his threat past anything and everyone, all the way to the gods themselves.

He'd known the world around him was so much bigger than he could see. He'd been proven this with the death of Lord Blackwood; he could see it, in so many things that it nearly drove him mad daily. But to be thrown here, into a world so very different than his own; and to see just the same men as he and Watson in just the same hurt and pain and fear...it was almost painful, the way that the world would mock him his so vast yet still so limited knowledge of it.

This Doctor Doom character was going to answer for this: that was certain.

Two quiet raps on the door wasn't enough to break through Sherlock's concentration on the problem of getting this Doom to cooperate, but the sudden appearance of Steve Rogers in the mirror before him did.

"I get the sense you understand this all...much, much better than I do…" Steve admitted quietly.

"I understand because it is an easy thing to comprehend when one's own life is, to an extent, mirrored. My brother and I came from a wealthy home, to two parents who despised each other and rarely cared about us. Both of us, in our ways, developed our brilliances; and, though it is to Mycroft's constant puzzlement, I chose to help people, in the way that I could, when I have the mind of a scientist or philosopher.

"Anthony Stark, for all the fault you find in him, is going against the way he was raised, and is fighting the good fight despite the best way his mind works. He choses the path of righteousness when he could still tread down that of villainy, and you stand before him, telling him that he doesn't deserve to stand amongst others who have tread the path of the darker portions of the human strive for power, telling him he does not deserve to try. Tell me, you knew his father; did you look so down your nose at a man whose weapons you carried into battle? When Tony Stark found that his weapons were being sold under the table, he destroyed them; and he ended up nearly dying for it, and, what, you wanted to throw that into the light of a sin rather than a redemption."

Steve flinched under the words, as well he should, "I-I never…"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, a motion that would infuriate Watson for the blatant questioning of his intelligence. "You never what, pray tell?"

Steve's jaw worked for a moment, annoyed, "I don't know what came over me on the Helicarrier. I don't know why I said those things, or even thought them. I don't know why I didn't give him a chance."

Sherlock, for all intents and purposes, dismissed it immediately: he had more pressing things to attend to than Steve Rogers' crisis of self. It wasn't forgotten, though, no matter how thoroughly Sherlock played the part, "I believe I know why our places were switched." Steve's head came round like an enticed puppy, "The danger inherent in both our lives suggests an attempt to wipe the both of us by one of us making a mistake. If one of us slips; if one of us dies, it is entirely likely that we _both_ die." Steve paled, and Sherlock pressed on, unrepentant. "Working under the assumption that in order to keep the balance of the worlds, one must replace what they displace-myself for Tony-the effect of the displacement and subsequent replacement would be a connection strong enough that our lives would balance each other: he dies, I die."

Steve's brow was furrowed, concern and panic rising behind his features, "Then we have to keep you safe-"

"Oh, by all means, you need to keep me safe. But it is him you need worry about. My life, while perhaps less complexly dangerous, is perhaps even more endangered than his. He is human; mortal, and at a disadvantage further than a limited knowledge of the world around him. I doubt Watson will be of much help, and my brother even less so. I do pray he's as clever as he's thought to be: he'll have a half a chance if he is."

Steve looked about ready for a relapse into hysteria. Sherlock could only roll his eyes, darting nimbly around him and walking directly into a breathtaking redhead that had the unfortunate effect of reminding him of Mary. "Ms. Potts!" Steve exclaimed from behind him, sounding like a kicked puppy, and Sherlock frowned, turning slightly before the brash and dominating woman caught his eye again.

"Ton-Wait. You are not Tony. I know Tony. Steve, what have you done with Tony?" Pepper began, the babble of her voice rolling from one thought to the next before it was fully formed.

"Captain Rogers did nothing with your Mr. Stark. I am Sherlock Holmes, though." Her eyebrows flew upwards, her eyes widening as he took her hand and kissed the back of it charmingly.

"P-Pepper Potts." She stuttered, looking more panicked by the moment. The cause of her distress was present, yes, but, really, one would think that people of this age would show more decorum than this. "Steve, tell me Tony isn't in Victorian England?"

Steve winced at her sympathetically, "We're trying to get him back."

Pepper pursed her lips, cocking one eyebrow, "Mmm. Well, I can keep things at bay for a while at least. Just in case, help him turn into Tony?" Steve looked as though he'd been punched. She patted him on the arm, "I'm sure you'll enjoy it...your chance to change him how you want him and all that." Pepper half-snapped at him, her eyes completely cold and fierce.

Sherlock smothered a smile, impressed. Steve scowled, looking properly ashamed. He ducked his head, biting his lip, and Sherlock could see why his other self would have such a close relationship with this Potts woman. "Madam, would you be so kind as to fill in some of the blanks as to what Captain Rogers should not know?"

Pepper blinked at the charming drawl of British accent pouring from the lips of a man that looked exactly like the devilishly handsome Tony Stark (apart from a grand lack of tan, moustache, or goatee). This was a combination so dangerous she honestly didn't know if even Natasha would be a match. "We should also get you some new clothes…" Pepper eyed him appraisingly, "and a shave. I don't think we can leave your hair, though. I've been trying to get Tony to embrace his curls from about a year after he hired me." Pepper smiled fondly, and Sherlock couldn't help but return it.

Feeling forgotten, Steve looked down, a look of severe disappointment in his eyes, "I would be much obliged."

Pepper bit her lip, her eyes straying to his chest, "The only problem is that Tony's arc reactor usually shines through his shirt…"

Sherlock perked up, "Master Jarvis?"

There was amusement in the AI's voice, and Steve shrunk a little, feeling unnecessary in the face of Pepper Potts and her sheer magnetism of apparently any and all things Tony. "Yes, sir?"

"I should like to see a decoy created of the light that would shine from Mr. Stark's chest."

"I shall render it now, sir." JARVIS answered with fondness in his voice. Steve only heard that tone when Tony was injured.

"Thank you," Sherlock called, smiling angelically.

Pepper considered what would happen if she started dating Sherlock Holmes. Then again, Steve would object to putting Natasha in a position where she would have to indirectly kill Tony. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes." Pepper smiled at him, offering her arm, "Come with me, I'll get you some different clothes. I've been wanting to see Tony in a nice cobalt blue, any objections?"

Holmes took her arm, smile still in place, "None at all, I am at the mercy of your every whim, my dear." Sherlock assured her.

Pepper should not have been so pleased with that.

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**A/N: Thank you to everyone who's been reading and reviewing. I'm sorry this mother's been taking so long: I've been struck with fifty different things at once and none of them want to play out for me. **

**Anywho, please, I'm trying as fast as I can, but I gotta say, while a review does help stoke the flames, demanding more or being bossy about it really isn't helping here. I try to finish what I start, so I will get to it, you just gotta bear with me.  
**

**Sorry for the wait, I hope you enjoy (writing Sherlock Holmes is bloody difficult, let me tell you), I hope to have another update for you soon.  
**


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